Friday, November 03, 2006

Zbigniew Herbert

Go where those others went to the dark boundaryfor the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their kneesamong those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to liveyou have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind decives you be courageousin the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the seawhenever you hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let you sister Scorn no leave youfor the informers executioners cowards - they will winfothey will go to your funeral and with relief will throw a lup of earththe woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your powerto forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnessary pridekeep looking at your clown's face in the mirrorrepeat: I was called - werent' there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning springthe bird with an unknown name the winter oak

light on a wall the splendour of the skythey don't need your warm breaththey are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant - when the light on the mountains gives the sign - arise and goas long as blood turns in the breast you dark star

repeat old in cantations of humanity fables and legendsbecause this is how you will attain the good you will not attainrepeat great words repeat them stubbornlylike those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at handwith the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go beacuase only in this way will you be admited to the company of cold skullsto the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Rolandthe defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go.

translated by John Carpenter & Bogdana Carpenter

Mr. Cogito - the Returnby Zbigniew Herbert

1

Mr. Cogito

has made up his mind to returnto the stony bosomof his homeland

the decision is dramatiche will regret it bitterly

but no longer can he endureempty everyday expressions--comment allez-vous--wie geht's--how are you

at first glance simple the questionsdemand a complicated answer

Mr. Cogito tears offthe bandages of polite indifference

he has stopped believing in progresshe is concerned about his own wound

displays of abundancefill him with boredom

he became attached onlyto a Dorian columnthe Church of San Clementethe portrait of a certain ladya book he didn't have time to readand a few other trifles

he sits in the lowsaddle of a valleycovered with thick fogthrough fog it is impossible to perceivefiery eyesgreedy clawsjaws

through fogone sees onlythe shimmering of nothingness

the monster of Mr. Cogitohas no measurements

it is difficult to describeescapes definition

it is like an immense depressionspread out over the country

it can't be piercedwith a penwith an argumentor spear

were it not for its suffocating weightand the death it sends downone would thinkit is the hallucinationof a sick imagination

but it existsfor certain it exists

like carbon monoxide it fillshouses temples markets

poisons wellsdestroys the structures of the mindcovers bread with mold

the proof of the existence of the monsteris its victims

it is not direct proofbut sufficient

2

reasonable people saywe can live togetherwith the monster

we only have to avoidsudden movementssudden speech

if there is a threatassume the formof a rock or a leaf

listen to wise Naturerecommending mimicry

that we breathe shallowlypretend we aren't there

Mr. Cogito howeverdoes not want a life of make-believe

he would like to fightwith the monsteron firm ground

so he walks out at dawninto a sleepy suburbcarefully equippedwith a long sharp object

he calls to the monsteron the empty streets

he offends the monsterprovokes the monster

like a bold skirmisherof an army that doesn't exist

he calls-come out contemptible coward

through the fogone sees onlythe huge snout of nothingness

Mr. Cogito wants to enter the uneven battle

it ought to happen possibly soon

before there will be a fall from inertia an ordinary death without glory suffocation from formlessness

translated by John Carpenter & Bogdana Carpenter

Mr. Cogito on Virtue

I

It is not at all strange she isn't the bride of real men

of generals athletes of power despots

through the ages she follows them this tearful old maid in a dreadful hat from the Salvation Army she reprimands them

she drags out of the junkroom a portrait of Socrates a little cross molded from bread old words

--while marvelous life reverberates all around ruddy as a slaughterhouse at dawn

she could almost be buried in a silver casket of innocent souvenirs

she becomes smaller and smaller like a hair in the throat like a buzzing in the ear

2

my God if she was a little younger a little prettier

kept up with the spirit of the times swayed her hips to the rhythm of popular music

maybe then she would be loved by real men generals athletes of power despots

if she took care of herself looked presentable like Liz Taylor or the Goddess of Victory

but an odor of mothballs wafts from her she compresses her lips repeats a great--No

unbearable in her stubbornness ridiculous as a scarecrow as the dream of an anarchist as the lives of the saints

translated by John Carpenter & Bogdana Carpenter

Our fear

Our fear does not wear a night shirt does not have owl's eyes does not lift a casket lid does not extinguish a candle

does not have a dead man's face either

our fear is a scrap of paper found in a pocket

"warn Wojcik the place on Dluga Street is hot" our fear does not rise on the wings of the tempest does not sit on a church tower it is down-to-earth

it has the shape of a bundle made in haste with warm clothing provisions and arms

our fear does not have the face of a dead man the dead are gentle to us we carry them on our shoulders sleep under the same blanket close their eyes adjust their lips pick a dry spot and bury them

not too deep not too shallow

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

Report from a Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and to fight like others- they generously assigned to me the inferior role of a chronicler I record--not knowing for whom--the history of the siege

I have to be precise but I don't know when the invasion began two hundred years ago in December in autumn perhaps yesterday at dawn here everybody is losing the sense of time

we were left with the place an attachment to the place still we keep ruins of temples phantoms of gardens of houses if we were to lose the ruins we would be left with nothing

I write as I can in the rhythm of unending weeks monday: storehouses are empty a rat is now a unit of currency tuesday: the mayor is killed by unknown assailants wednesday: talks of armistice the enemy interned our envoys we don't know where they are being kept i.e. tortured thursday: after a stormy meeting the majority voted down the motion of spice merchants on unconditional surrender friday: the onset of plague saturday: the suicide of N.N.,the most steadfast defender sunday: no water we repulsed the attack at the eastern gate named the Gate of the Alliance

I know all this is monotonous nobody would care

I avoid comments keep emotions under control describe facts they say facts only are valued on foreign marketsbut with a certain pride I wish to convey to the worldthanks to the war we raised a new species of childrenour children don't like fairy tales they play killingday and night they dream of soup bread bonesexactly like dogs and cats

in the evening I like to wander in the confines of the City along the frontiers of our uncertain freedom I look from above on the multitude of armies on their lights I listen to the din of drums to barbaric shrieks it's incredible that the City is still resisting the siege has been long the foes must replace each other they have nothing in common except a desire to destroy us the Goths the Tartars the Swedes the Emperor's troupes regiments of Our Lord's Transfiguration who could count them colors of banners change as does the forest on the horizon from the bird's delicate yellow in the spring through the green the red to the winter black

and so in the evening freed from facts I am able togive thought to bygone faraway matters for instance to our allies overseas I know they feel true compassionthey send us flour sacks of comfort lard and good counsel without even realizing that we were betrayed by their fathers our former allies from the time of the second Apocalypse their sons are not guilty they deserve our gratitude so we are gratefulthey have never lived through the eternity of a siegethose marked by misfortune are always alone Dalai Lama's defenders Kurds Afghan mountaineers

now as I write these words proponents of compromisehave won a slight advantage over the party of the dauntless usual shifts of mood our fate is still in the balance

cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders shrinksbut the defense continues and will last to the endand even if the City falls and one of us surviveshe will carry the City inside him on the roads of exilehe will be the City

we look at the face of hunger the face of fire the face of death and the worst of them all--the face of treason

and only our dreams have not been humiliated

Warsaw 1982

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

Transformations of Livyby Zbigniew Herbert

How did they understand Livy my grandfather my great grandfathercertainly they read him in high schoolat the not very propitious time of the yearwhen a chestnut stands in the window--fervent candelabras of blooms--all the thoughts of grandfather and great grandfather running breathless to Miziawho sings in the garden shows her decolletage also her heavenly legs up to the kneesor Gabi from the Vienna opera with ringlets like a cherub Gabi with a snub nose and Mozart in her throator in the end to kindhearted Jozia refuge of the dejectedwith no beauty talent or great demandsand so they read Livy--O season of blossoms--in the smell of chalk boredom naphthalene for cleaning the floorunder a portrait of the emperorbecause at that time there was an emperorand the empire like all empiresseemed eternal

Reading the history of the City they surrendered to the illusionthat they are Romans or descendants of the Romansthese sons of the conquered themselves enslavedsurely the Latin master contributed to thiswith his rank of Court Councillora collection of antique virtues under a worn-out frock coatso following Livy he implanted in his pupils the contempt for the mobthe revolt of the people--res tam foede--aroused loathing in themwhereas all of the conquests appeared justthey showed simply the victory of what is better strongerthat is why they were pained by the defeat at Lake Trasimenothe superiority of Scipio filled them with pridethey learned of the death of Hannibal with genuine reliefeasily too easily they let themselves be ledthrough the entrenchments of subordinate clausescomplex constructions governed by the gerundrivers swollen with elocutionpitfalls of syntax--to battlefor a cause not theirs

Only my father and myself after himread Livy against Livycarefully examining what is underneath the frescothis is why the theatrical gesture of Scaevola awoke no echo in usshouts of centurions triumphal marcheswhile we were willing to be moved by the defeatof the Samnites Gauls or Etruscanswe counted many of the names of peoples turned to dust by the Romansburied without glory who for Livywere not worth even a wrinkle of stylethose Hirpins Apulians Lucanians Osunansalso the inhabitants of Tarentum Metapontum Locri

My father knew well and I also knowthat one day on a remote boundarywithout any signs in heaven in Pannonia Sarajevo or Trebizondin a city by a cold seaor in a valley of Panshira local conflagration will explode

and the empire will fall

Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter

The Nepenthe Familyby Zbigniew Herbert

Did Jean-Jaques the Tender know about the pitcher plant-it was described by Linnaeus he should have know it-so why was he silent about this scandal of nature

one of many scandals but perhapsbeyond the capacity of the hear and tear glandsof the one who sought only comfort in nature

this is criminal grows in the dark jungles of Borneoand lures with a flower that is not a flowerbut the main vein of a leaf fanned out in the form of a pitcher

with a hinged lid and very sweet mouththat draws insects to the teacherous banquetlike the secret police of a certain empire

for who can resist-fly or man-the sticky nectars orgy of colors glowing with huesof white of violet of meat like the windows of a red travern

where a kind innkeeper with a beautiful daughter wifesends the company of drunken guests drained of bloodto heaven or hell depending on their merits

it was a fovrite of the Victorian decadentscombining the salon of debauchery with the torture chambereverything was there-rope nails venom sex the knout the coffin

and we live peacefully with the pitcher plantamong gulags concentration camps with no concern for the knowledgethat innocence in the world of plants-does not exist